


like Earth's proud empires, pass away

by Sarah T (SarahT), SarahT



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9656501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahT/pseuds/Sarah%20T, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahT/pseuds/SarahT
Summary: “Hello, Miss Watson.  You have been having adventures, haven’t you?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Spike for beta and D. for helpful suggestions.
> 
> A Russian translation of this story is available at https://ficbook.net/readfic/6158730.

Rosamund (late “Rosie”) Watson was ready to admit that she hadn’t made the best choices that day. But there was no one to make the admission to.Ifeoma’s parents had already come to the station in high dudgeon and taken her home, Ifeoma darting her an apologetic look behind their backs as they left.Rosamund was still sitting on the hard plastic chair in the empty room half an hour later.She didn’t even have her phone.If they hadn’t skived off school, she thought wistfully, she’d be at lacrosse practice now.Though she’d already had her ration of running and yelling for the day.

The door opened, and she looked up, tensing.But it wasn’t Dad or even Celia.It was a tall, very thin man with silvering hair at his temples.He was wearing a long black coat over an amazingly old-fashioned suit and, even more weirdly, carrying an umbrella.He looked familiar, but it took her a minute to place him.Mycroft Holmes.Sherlock’s brother.She’d seen him, from across the room, once or twice when she was a kid.They’d never spoken.She couldn’t imagine why they’d called _him_.

She stood up.He looked her up and down for a minute in a way that made her shift—not like a creep, or maybe like a creep, but not a _sex pervert_ creep, she couldn’t really explain it.Then he said, “Hello, Miss Watson.You have been having adventures, haven’t you?”

“That depends on how you define ‘adventures’,” Rosamund said cautiously.

“Leaving school early, going to a showing at BFI Southbank of _The Maltese Falcon_ , convincing someone to buy you cigarettes, which you hadn’t tried before and nearly made you vomit, and then finally getting into a scrap with some boys who were harassing a hijabi which led to police intervention—for a fourteen-year-old girl, I’d say that qualifies.”

He sounded faintly smug, as if she hadn’t had dinner with Sherlock Holmes twice a week her entire life and learned long ago not to be impressed by that.“Oh, you do the deduction thing, too?”

“‘The deduction thing?’” he said, wrinkling his nose. 

“Yes, that’swhat we call it in _our_ house.”

A beat, and his expression smoothed out again.“Well, Miss Watson, in addition to deductions, I do the ‘thing’ of getting you released from police custody without further ado or black mark on your record.But only if that’s of interest to you.”

He waited, with his eyebrows raised, like it was an actual question.

She stared at him a minute.Was he serious?

“Er, _yes_.” 

“Shall we, then?”

They walked through the station without a single cop meeting their eyes—as if he had magic powers.It was impressive.She resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at the reception officer as she passed.That would’ve been very immature.

There was a black car waiting outside.Not a surprise, he was definitely the type.The driver (a driver!Who still had a _driver_?)opened the door and she climbed inside.

“Maida Vale?” Mycroft asked.

“No, tonight’s Baker Street,” she said, and the car started.

As they moved smoothly through traffic, she looked over at Mycroft.He was staring out the window, apparently lost in thought.She realized that she didn’t really know anything about him, which was strange, considering that Sherlock was probably the person she liked best in the world besides Dad.She tried to think of what she _did_ know.Almost no actual facts.Instead, what came back to her was the way Dad had mentioned him in conversation with Sherlock once or twice.With an unusual tone—a curled-in dislike—that was unsettling to remember 

But he was helping her now, and though he was certainly a little strange, she didn’t see any reason to actually dislike him.It seemed like she ought to make some conversation, if only out of gratitude.“So,” she said.“Are they on a case?Did Sherlock ask you to pick me up?”

He didn’t stir.“No.I receive reports on the security status of various people connected to Sherlock.I was in the area, as they say, when your alert came in.I thought it might be helpful if I intervened.”

“Reports.Because you’re…some kind of spy, right?”That much, she’d gathered.

He considered.“‘Some kind of spy,’ yes, that will do.”

She was curious, but his tone didn’t really invite more questions.

“Well, thanks.Dad’s going to be mad enough as it is, at least he didn’t have to come pick me up at the station.”

“My pleasure.”

He smiled, but only briefly.Every few seconds, his coat pocket vibrated with a message coming in, but he didn’t touch it. 

Despite having a human driver, they made remarkable time back to Baker Street—she didn’t think they’d caught a single red.Two blocks away, Mycroft leaned forward and told the driver, “Pull in here.”

“Why don’t you come in and have dinner with us?” she said impulsively.“Sherlock always orders way too much takeaway.I’m sure there’ll be plenty.”

Mycroft’s mouth twisted.“No, thank you.I’m afraid I’ve no appetite.”

“But don’t you want to say hi?”

“Not particularly, no.”

He said it so smoothly, so tonelessly, that for a minute she didn’t actually process what he meant.Then she flushed.

“Oh.”She looked away and fumbled for the door handle.“Anyway…thanks again,” she said, climbing out of the car.“It really was nice of you to go to all the trouble.”

He leaned over towards the door.His hand delved into his inner pocket and came out with her phone and a card, which he offered up to her.“Here.This should help in future encounters with law enforcement.”

“There won’t be any more encounters with law enforcement,” she said firmly.

He cocked his head.“You’ve determined to avoid trouble from now on?”

“I’ve determined to avoid getting caught.”

A slow smile crossed his face, and he looked her over again. Though he said nothing, it felt like he was asking her questions, asking them and then noting down answers she hadn’t even given.

“What?” she said, finally.

“Nothing,” he said.“You simply reminded me of your mother.”

She stared.“Mum?You knew my mum?”

“Have a good evening,” he said, and closed the door.

  
  


Baker Street was her favorite place in the whole world.She didn’t remember a time when it wasn’t like home to her.No, as cozy as home, but much more exciting.Like she had her own personal portal to adventure.A real magic wardrobe, a key to the TARDIS.But she didn’t feel excited going up the seventeen steps that day.

Sherlock was staring into the microscope when she came in.“You’re early,” he said, without looking up.

“Yeah,” she said, and sat down on the couch.She was just realizing that she would have to tell Dad _something_ about what had happened.She was lucky it was a Baker Street night, but still. 

“Is something the matter?”

The same distracted tone he always took, which somehow made it easier to talk to him.She took a deep breath, and then Dad came in with the food.

Over dinner, Sherlock kept shooting her looks.She knew she was going to have to get it over with soon or face an interrogation, and she had learned a long time ago that it was easier to get in ahead with her own version of a story than have Sherlock deduce it out of her.She picked at her dan dan noodles half-heartedly, then said, “Dad, I have to tell you something.”

“Yes?”He didn’t notice her tone, but Sherlock looked up sharply.

“Well…me and a friend skipped school today.The police picked us up.”

He nearly spat out a mouthful of double-braised pork.“You _what_?”

“I know, I know I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry—“

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, quickly deciding.“We asked someone to buy us some cigarettes and I guess the shopkeeper was conscientious.”

“But why didn’t the police call me?Did they call Celia?She would’ve told me.” 

“They didn’t call anybody,” she said.“Mycroft came and got me.”

“ _Mycroft?_ ” Dad said, astonished.“Mycroft Holmes?Tall bloke with an umbrella?”

She didn’t understand this reaction.“Yes.”

“What was _Mycroft_ doing picking you up from the police station?” 

“He said he was ‘in the area.’He told me there wasn’t going to be any record.”

He looked at Sherlock, who was staring at Rosamund with a strange expression on his face.“Did you know about this?”

“John, I haven’t seen him or heard from him since the catastrophe that was Euros’s memorial service.You remember, when he walked out right in the middle of Mummy’s speech.”

“Yes,” Dad said dryly, “how _could_ I forget the edifying spectacle of having to break up you two fighting in the church foyer over his umbrella afterwards?”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock grimaced, “That was almost three years ago.He didn’t even answer my last Christmas text.”

“But then he butts in when Rosie gets picked up by the police.”He gave a small, incredulous laugh.“Typical.I guess at least now we know his surveillance is still active.”

She didn’t understand his tone.“Dad, he was nice.He even gave me a ride here.”

“Rosie,” he flattened his hand on the table a little too hard and stared at it.“I’m your father.You’re my responsibility.When you get into trouble, it’s _my_ job to deal with it.It was none of Mycroft’s business.”

There was silence at the table.

Dad said, “I have to talk to him, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hesitated.“I’m not even sure any of my numbers go through anymore.”

“I can’t just act like this didn’t happen.Try.”

Sherlock nodded and picked up his phone.He tapped in something, then handed it to John.

“Rosie, go upstairs for a few minutes, please.”

She didn’t argue. 

  


They called the room upstairs her study.She did her homework there sometimes, when she happened to be spending time at Baker Street and whatever Sherlock was doing in the kitchen was too loud or too noxious for her to concentrate.She’d even slept there a few times when Dad had been away, before he married Celia.She liked it, even if the decor was straight out of the teens.Now she ran her fingers over the spines of a few favorite books she kept on a shelf, trying not to hear what was going on below. 

A knock on the door.“Rosamund?May I come in?”

“Sure.”

Sherlock shut the door behind him.

“Bailing me out of trouble used to be Mycroft's chief avocation,” he said. “ _Our_ parents didn't generally take such an interest.”

“I didn’t think Dad would get upset at _him_.”

Sherlock sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair.“John never got on with Mycroft.They started off on the wrong foot.”

“How?”

“Mycroft kidnapped him.”Sherlock smiled at the memory.“It’s a long story.”

It startled a smile out of her, too.Although Dad had been kidnapped a lot of times since then.She wasn’t sure why he’d still mind that.

He sobered.“But, to be fair, my brother is a difficult man to like.”

“I guess.The police seemed scared of him.”

“Everyone is, these days.But I’m curious.You were observing him.What did you conclude?”

He sounded expectant.He always thought she would do the clever thing, the thing that would solve the puzzle.But she wasn’t like him, she had to think about observing, she had to walk herself through deductions step by step. 

Hoping not to disappoint him, she said, “He was _strange_.He was wearing incredibly old-fashioned clothes.A suit!With an umbrella!And he’s really thin, and pale, and he was pretty distracted.But his phone was going off constantly, and he wasn’t checking it.”

Sherlock nodded.“But did he…”He paused, casting his eyes around the room with a sudden discomfort.“How did he… _seem_?”

She frowned.She knew what he meant, but she didn’t think he’d ever asked her such an imprecise question.If she had asked it of him, she never would have heard the end of it.“I don’t know.Quiet, I guess.Just…quiet.”

Sherlock stood thinking about that, then drew himself up and put on his bright look.“I believe John didn’t get through.Let’s finish dinner, shall we?”

Which made her think of something. 

“He didn’t want to see you.”

His hand stopped short of the doorknob.“What?”

“I asked him if he wanted to come in and have dinner.He said no.”

There was a pause.She wondered if she should have said anything.Sherlock always said the truth was the only thing that mattered.But he didn’t always _act_ that way.

“Well, he hates Sichuan food,” Sherlock finally said.“Let’s have ours before it grows cold.”

  


In the auto-cab on the way home, Dad patted her hand and said, “I’m sorry I got upset, Rosie-girl.I'd just rather not have Mycroft Holmes in our lives again." 

The sliding streetlights made him look sallow and tired. 

“I’m sorry, too, Dad,” she said.

“It's not your fault. He's never needed an invitation to meddle."

“But he helped.”

“You have to understand. Mycroft looks...harmless enough, I guess, but he's actually the most dangerous person you’ll ever meet.”

“Really? More dangerous than _Moriarty_?”

She said it playfully, because she didn’t think it was possible. She’d found out about Moriarty at age ten, when she’d read one of Dad’s books even though he’d told her she was too young. She’d come away from it practically in tears, not so much because of what he did—though that was bad enough—but because of the feeling it gave her, which she only understood later, of how terrified and lost Dad had been. Her Dad, who was braver and tougher than anyone, and who hadn’t been able to do anything except watch Sherlock fall. Sherlock had found her sniffling and told her the story of how it had all been a game and they had won. But the name had never really lost that shadow of fear.

It was hard to imagine Mycroft, or anyone, being worse.

“Yes,” he said. “He’s extremely powerful and he doesn’t think any of the rules apply to him. You can’t trust anything he says, Rosie. Whatever he does, he always has a hidden motive." 

“Oh.” Though she couldn’t quite work out what hidden motive he might have for giving her a ride home from the police station. 

“And he...He’s hurt a lot of people. Including Sherlock.”

“At that funeral?”

“He would’ve broken his arm if I hadn’t pulled them apart.I’d never seen him like that.But that’s not really what I’m talking about.”

“No?”

He opened his hand, looked at it, closed it again.

“It's very complicated, Rosie. But I was happy when he lost interest in us. Or when I thought he did.”

“What happened?”

“I don't really know,” he said. “There was a case he brought us, a bad case, and we solved it. And then one day I looked around and realized that no one had kidnapped me off the street in months. It was a relief.”

“Which case?”

She knew the books by heart now, and Mycroft wasn’t in them.

“It's not in the books, Rosie. And it won't be.”

“Why not?”

He looked at her and smiled. “We certainly have brought up a detective,” he said, and the smile went sad. “It was a very bad case. We almost died. Some other people did die. And it was Mycroft's fault. I just think it’s safer for you not to have him around. So let it be, okay?”

She didn't say anything, but squeezed his hand.

  
  


She was grounded, of course, and put on phone restriction.She and Ifeoma had to write essays for school about the dynamics of peer pressure, but she was still left with plenty of time to think about the subject that had gotten pushed aside in the dinner drama: the last thing Mycroft had said to her. 

She knew the _facts_ about her mum, of course.A nurse who had met Dad at his practice during the famous period when everyone thought Sherlock was dead and then sometimes helped with the cases when he’d come back.From the pictures, pretty, in a subdued sort of way, even in the ridiculous millennial styles, with clever, laughing blue eyes.She’d only been married to Dad a year and a half when she’d died.It had been a terrible accident, a case gone wrong, Dad had said.

But those were just the facts.She didn’t know what Mum had been like, really.Dad didn’t like to talk about her, she could tell.He used to try to tell her stories, but he’d always end up trailing off into vagueness, and be quiet and grim for hours after.After he married Celia, he stopped trying.Sherlock sometimes seemed like he had more to say, but he would usually get uncomfortable and stop himself after a few sentences. There weren’t many subjects that made Sherlock uncomfortable.It was mysterious.Molly always flushed and looked like she was going to cry any time Mum’s name came up, and anyway she was around a lot less once Dad remarried.Mum didn’t have any family, so that left her with no other good sources of information.

That left her looking at Mycroft’s card and wondering.

In the closet of the spare bedroom, she found the wedding album. She remembered the famous story: how Sherlock had solved three murders while giving his best man's speech. As she opened it, she realized that actual physical photos meant she couldn’t just do a search.How annoying.Flipping through the pages, she scanned for Mycroft. There were Mum and Dad, just like in the picture Dad kept on the desk in his study. There was Sherlock, looking remarkably handsome in his black tie. There was Molly, in an outfit that Rosamund couldn't believe was stylish even back then, but beaming. Greg—and _speaking_ of remarkably handsome, she had had no idea...But no Mycroft, anywhere.

She texted Molly, _Did my mum know the rest of Sherlock’s family?_

She went online to look up Mycroft. She hadn't expected to find him on a Wikipedia list of important spies, but neither had she expected what she did find. The Persona search returned an answer she had never seen before: _No person so identified is available to search._ A more general search was not much more helpful. No image gallery. No news roundup. The obituary for Sherlock's dad—well, she knew about that, and all it did was mention his name. Weirdly, some posts with an Oxford email address on an ancient network forum, about a geometry problem that she got cross-eyed just trying to read. A paper from an even older cryptography journal that she couldn’t even get through the first sentence of (author information: “Mycroft Holmes is a student at Harrow School”). One image that Google offered with its _substantial degree of uncertainty_ flag, of what looked like a presentation of honors in a cathedral. Mycroft (if it was even him) was standing by a pillar, half-masked in shadow. The umbrella was leaning against the pillar. She wondered if that was what had tipped Google off.

Filtering with “Mary Watson”: nothing at all.

Her phone beeped. Molly. _Don't think so. His parents were living quietly in Surrey. His sister was too sick. And I never heard she met Mycroft. But he always turns out to know more than you would expect._

No question about _why_ she was asking. Rosamund smiled. Molly never pushed. 

Well.Dad had told her, that first evening, that if Mycroft turned up and tried to take her anywhere, that she shouldn’t go, even if someone from school was telling her to.That she should call him, or Sherlock, instead.But he hadn’t said anything about _her_ calling _Mycroft_.And, despite everything he’d told her, she still couldn’t think of a reason Mycroft would want to hurt her.Sometimes you had to trust your own judgment.Like Sherlock did in the Baskerville case.

So she waited one night until Dad and Celia were asleep, locked the door to her room, and held the chip in the card against her phone’s reader.

There was a long wait before it even rang.Then it rang seven, eight, nine times, and the only reason she didn’t hang up was that she kept expecting to go to voicemail.But then there was a click, and a different quality of silence.“Hello?” she tried.“May I speak to Mycroft Holmes, please?”

Yet another click, and finally his voice.“Miss Watson?”

“Rosamund, okay?”

“Very well, Rosamund.Don’t tell me that your determination to avoid police entanglements has already been thwarted.”

He sounded very far away, and faintly amused. 

“No.I’m at home.”

She could almost hear his face growing cautious.“You may not be aware of this, Rosamund, but your father—“

“He’s asleep.”

“Ah.And what is it you wish to ask me by night and fog?”

“Can I come see you?”

  


They met the next Saturday afternoon.She told Dad she was going to the library, but got on the Tube instead.Mycroft was waiting on the banks of the Serpentine, still in a suit—black with red pinstripes this time, she noted for Sherlock—still carrying the umbrella.He didn’t look like the most dangerous man she’d ever meet.He looked…odd, but almost soodd that he’d come right back around to style.She could imagine him appearing in a movie or a magazine shoot about people from way back in the previous century.His face was smooth and expressionless, and he walked as though he was just a little offset from reality and expected reality to either catch up or get left behind.He could be the villain in that movie, she thought, she could see it. 

Maybe that was what Dad really didn’t like about him.But she couldn’t help it, she liked it, somehow, the same way she liked Sherlock.It was much quieter, but he still had the air of belonging to a world where fantastic things could happen at any time.The world she’d felt she’d been in for five minutes that afternoon she’d cut school, standing on the Millennium Bridge, coughing away the last of the cigarette smoke and looking down at all London spread out before her.

He turned to walk, and she fell in beside him. 

“Well,” he said, half-squinting out at the water, “as much as I do enjoy the occasional spot of skullduggery, I would like to know what prompted this request for a rendezvous.I don’t generally make a habit of meeting with teenage girls behind their parents’ backs.”

She had thought about various ways of asking him, but, in the end, she’d decided it was best to get straight to the point.“You said you knew my mum.”

“Ah.Yes.Yes, I did.”

She waited, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Well…could you tell me about her?”

“My entire career has been founded on the value of information, Rosamund,” he said mildly.“What are you offering me in return?”

She stared at him.So Dad hadn’t been totally wrong.He sounded like someone in a fairytale.Except that she couldn’t actually trade away her soul or her firstborn to him.“I don’t really…what do you want?”

“I only want you to tell me something.”He smiled, unconvincingly.“Nothing indiscreet.”

“What?”

“You’ve had no prior encounters with the police and your record at Queen’s is, if not spotless, certainly respectable.So why the sudden outbreak of juvenile delinquency last week?”

She shrugged.“Just bored, I guess.”

He raised his brows.“Rosamund, I am a _connoisseur_ of boredom, and you don’t strike me as the type.”

 _Connoisseur of boredom_.That sounded like something Sherlock would say.

But it wasn’t like she really knew, herself.Did she?

“It’s not that my life is boring,” she said, surprising herself.“It’s just…my dad and Sherlock are always talking about these amazing things they do for cases, and it always sounded like, when I was old enough, I could join in.But the older I get, the more Dad doesn’t want me to do _anything_ , and Sherlock has gotten extra awkward lately, like he’s afraid to talk to me, and of course Celia’s no help.”

“And?”

“And, if Dad can decide he’d rather chase murderers than go to work, I don’t see why _I_ can’t decide to do something more interesting than school.”

He nodded, as if it was a reasonable thing to say.

“Or sneak out against your parents’ wishes to rendezvous secretly with the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet?”

“You know about that?”

He peered at the tip of his umbrella.“Sherlock gave him that description of me.It seems to have stuck.”

“I meant the sneaking.”

He smiled, a very odd smile that read _Don’t embarrass both of us with such obvious questions_.

Irritated, she said, “Well, yes.That’s why I did it.”

“I see.And I suppose it’s been worse since you started at Queen’s, more or less.”

She peered at him.“Yes.How did you know?”

He indicated a nearby bench. “Shall we sit?”

  


He didn’t say anything for a while after they sat down.She was quiet, waiting.Eventually, he took a packet from his coat pocket, opened it, and began scattering crumbs to the nearby waterfowl. 

“I thought that was illegal.”There _was_ a noticeboard only a few feet away saying just that.

“I have a royal dispensation,” he said placidly.He didn’t sound like he was joking.

The geese quacked and squabbled over the crumbs, but kept a respectful distance.As if they had invisible bodyguards.

“As you’ve gotten older,” Mycroft said finally, “you’ve come to resemble your mother much more.I imagine it disturbs your father to see.”

She turned towards him.“How _did_ you know her?”

“She worked for me.”

That made no sense, and it made her think of what Dad had said about not trusting him.

“But”—she turned over her hand—“you’re a spy.Mum was a nurse.”

“Your mother,” he said precisely, poking his umbrella tip into the ground, “was a mercenary and an assassin.Nursing was her option for retirement.”

Now she was staring.“Mum killed people?For the government?”

He shrugged.“Not exclusively.In fact, I ultimately fired her.”

He looked perfectly unruffled, as if he were discussing the weather.It would explain so much, fit into so many holes in stories, comments Dad and Sherlock had sometimes made that she didn’t understand.

But it would also make some things make _less_ sense.

“But that’s…how could Dad marry a murderer?”

Dad might have his problems, but he was a good person. She knew he was.And Sherlock—when she thought about it, maybe Sherlock might have married an assassin himself—but he would never have let Dad do it.

“He didn’t know about her past when he married her.Neither did Sherlock.I’m not sure John ever got over it.Of course, he didn’t have long to do so.”

A sudden fear came over her.“And—when she died—was that—“

“Her past catching up with her, yes.Being strictly accurate, I’m afraid it must be said that she refused to leave it behind.”

“So instead she left me and Dad behind.”

She felt sick.It didn’t look like Mycroft had noticed.He only said, bracing himself on the umbrella handle, “Rosamund, there are some people who will never be happy living that kind of life.No matter how hard they try.No matter how much they may want to.I believe Mary tried.”

It was all too big.She pushed it aside for a moment.Tried to get back to the original question.“So you think—you think my reminding Dad of her—“

“He doesn’t want you following in her footsteps.For many reasons.”

“But that’s not reasonable.”

“You’d be surprised at how many parental worries aren’t reasonable,” he said.An alarm went off in one of his pockets, and he grimaced.“You’ll excuse me, Rosamund, but I’m on a schedule today.”

  


They walked slowly to the edge of the park.Rosamund could see the car waiting.

She was still thinking about what he’d said, and what Dad had said, and she still had so many questions.“Why are you doing this?”

He raised an eyebrow.“I believe _you_ arranged this interview.”

“No, I mean, it’s clear that for whatever reason you don’t get along with Dad or Sherlock.I didn’t really need to be rescued from the station, one of them would have come and gotten me.Why would you bother?”

He cocked his head.“You think I’m trying to manipulate you.”

“No, but…”

“Perhaps I have a hidden motive for all this?”He shook his head.“I already told you, Rosamund, that I’m not in the business of giving away information for free.”

“What else can I even tell you?”

He walked on in silence for a few steps.“What are your feelings about Sherlock Holmes?”

It was so unexpected, so odd, it made her laugh.He only raised his eyebrows, but something about his look sobered her.“That’s easy.I love him.I’ve always loved him.Since I was a baby.He’s the strangest and most amazing person I’ve ever met.You’re his brother, you must know that.Why would you even need to ask?”

He looked away.“Not many people do.”

“More people _should_ ,” she said warmly, and a smile whisked over his face, though it was gone in an instant.They reached the car.“Well, that was easier than I thought.Your turn.”

He shrugged.

“I’m dying, Rosamund.The doctors confirmed it the very morning we met.I have weeks, at most.I was trying to decide how best to inform certain colleagues about the news when your report popped up and offered me an excuse.It gave me an ironic pleasure to be able to say I was taking the afternoon off for a ‘family matter’ and have it be somewhere in the vicinity of the truth.”He rested his gloved hand on the car door.“There.Now you know a state secret.You, the Prime Minister, and his Majesty.”

She stared at him, scanning for signs that he was joking, but didn’t see any.And now she was observing: he was pale.And _gaunt_.His suit might be expensive, but it was actually a little too big for him.He was using the umbrella like a cane. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said.“What are you going to do?”

“The restful thing about dying is that it requires no decisions on your part to be accomplished.I will work until I can work no longer, and then I will lie down in my lovely house out at Kew and wait until it is over.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“My death should inconvenience him very little.My solicitor is executor of my estate and will handle the logistics.I’ve left details of my memorial service already planned.He need do nothing but put on a suit and look suitably grave for a few hours. Though I’m sure he will resent even that much.”

“I meant, when are you going to tell him?” she asked as he got into the car.

He smiled.“Be careful going home,” he said, “and don’t forget to pick up a book or two.”

  


She’d never thought to look at the obituary.Why had she never thought to look at the obituary?She pulled it up in the cab. _Mary Watson, loving wife of John Watson, mother of Rosamund.Died after a sudden illness.Services to be announced._

“Sudden illness.”“Sudden illness” wasn’t “a terrible accident.”Not even close.

It wasn’t “past as an assassin caught up with her,” either.

But if someone wanted to cover up something about the circumstances of her mum’s death, something that the public couldn’t know about…”sudden illness” made a lot more sense.

“Oh, Mum, I’m sorry,” she whispered.“Why didn’t I _observe_?”

  


But she didn’t go to the library, she went straight to Baker Street.Showed what Mycroft knew.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, beakers in hand.“Rosamund?Rosamund, what—“He blinked at her, face darkening.“Oh.Dammit, I _knew_ young people don’t go to the library anymore.”He pulled a rack forward with his elbow so he could put the beakers down and came around the table.

“It’s true?” she asked, voice quivering.

“Strange as it may be to say this of Mycroft, whatever he told you…yes.It’s true.”He reached to touch her arm, then realized he was still wearing the lab gloves.He stripped them and the goggles off and dropped them on the floor.“You’ll feel better if you sit down.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Ah.That.Well.”He looked so awkward that she sat down just so he would continue.He perched on the sofa next to her.“I wanted to tell you, Rosamund, but your father thought you were too young.He wanted to wait a little longer.”

They had kept her out.They had known the truth and they had kept her out.It was all right for her to know about murders and poisons and Moriarty, but not about her mum.

“You both _lied_ to me.”

“Actually, technically, almost everything we said was—“

Oh, she was not letting this happen.She knew when Sherlock was being evasive, she had seen it a hundred times.

“ _Technically_?”

He raised his hands apologetically.“It was her cover story.It was what she told us first.It seemed like the kindest version to give to a child.”He seemed to hear the last sentence as he spoke it and winced.

“I’m not a child anymore, Sherlock.”

“No,” he said, “clearly not.”

She got up and moved restlessly around the room.Her eyes lit on the photo frames, one by one.Her, a chubby toddler, attempting to eat Sherlock’s bow, and a nine-year-old in pigtails and football kit, standing with one hand on her hip and the ball under her arm.Mrs. Hudson, who had moved to the Lake District when she was ten, mock-glaring into the camera and brandishing a spatula.Sherlock’s Mum and Dad (this one shoved into the very back of a shelf behind a pile of clutter).No Mycroft, she thought.And no Mary.

“She was really a killer?”

“Yes.She was, but…whatever she was,” Sherlock said simply, seriously, “to me, Mary Watson was a friend.”

He was leaning forward, hands together, earnest as a little kid. 

“Really?”

Sherlock got up and crossed the room to where his violin case lay on a chair.He took the instrument out.“Listen.”

Puzzled, she watched as he put bow to string, and began to play.

Despite all the classes, she had never really been musical.It had been the cause of Sherlock’s most theatrical despairs.But the waltz was simple and sweet, skimming between hopefulness and melancholy.When it ended, Sherlock kept his eyes shut, damping down a string with one finger.

She knew.It was the same as the laugh in Mum’s eyes in the pictures.“You wrote that for her?”

“I wanted them to be happy,” he said, still not opening his eyes, voice rough.“So much.You can have no idea.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He suddenly lowered the violin and turned to put it back in its case.“She died saving my life.Did Mycroft tell you that?”

“No!”

“Of course not.He probably didn’t think it was _relevant_.”

“Tell me now.”

  


Sherlock squeezed her hand and let it go.“There are other stories, but that’s the most important one.Your mother died a hero.”

Rosamund nodded.Her heart felt very full, as if anything else could make it overflow. 

“It’s up to you when you’d like to let your dad know you know,” he said.“When you do, you can tell him I told you.It’ll help him get used to the idea more quickly.”

“But then he’ll be angry at _you_.”

He smiled.“I’ve been friends with your father for almost twenty years now.You know how it works.We take turns infuriating each other.I’m overdue.”

She smiled back, tremulously.

“Now, then,” he slapped his hands on his thighs, “before you go off to the library, is there anything else my brother said to you that requires my annotation?”

She hesitated. _You, the Prime Minister, and his Majesty_.The geese, keeping a careful distance as Mycroft leaned on his umbrella. _What are your feelings about Sherlock Holmes?_

“The case, that case Mycroft brought you…how bad was it, really?”

He took in a sharp breath and slid backwards on the sofa, eyes wide.Then he gathered himself, stood abruptly, and walked over to the mantelpiece. 

“Bad, Rosamund, very bad.Even worse than I realized, apparently.”He cleared his throat.“He _told_ you about that?”

“No, he just…”She wasn’t sure how it happened, but she was brimming over tears.

Sherlock turned around and saw, but didn’t move to comfort her right away.He studied her with his strange light eyes, observing, observing.His lips formed the ghost of an O, and he swallowed, then swallowed again.

“All right, Rosamund,” he said, and came to hug her awkwardly, with one arm.“All right.”

  


She started to dial the number, then put the phone down again.12:32 am, read the lock screen.Oh, for crying out loud.She snatched up the phone.

The rings and clicks and silences, and then Mycroft’s voice.“Yes?”

“It’s Rosamund.”

“Yes,” he said dryly, “so modern technology tells me.”

“Did I wake you up?”

“I’m always awake these days, Rosamund.What can I do for you?”

She’d turned it over and over in her mind.Then she had decided to do what felt right.“Are you busy Saturday?”

The pause was so long that she almost panicked and hung up.“I’m afraid that most of the rest of the information I have about your mother is classified.You don’t have the clearance.”

“It’s not that,” she said.“I just thought we could feed the geese again.”

  


It was an overcast day, winter showing through a thin coat of spring.The Serpentine was deserted.Mycroft was visibly thinner, withdrawn inside his overcoat.“Alas, my privileges are nonassignable,” he said, as they sat down on the bench.

“Is anyone really going to bother me when I’m with you?”

He chuckled, a bleak and wintry sound.“No.”

The geese came and went, their cries and flappings almost the only sounds.Mycroft looked meditative as he dropped the crumbs one by one. 

“I like this,” she said, after a while.“This is nice.”

“‘Nice?’”

He raised his eyebrow, and she knew what he meant immediately.Sherlock hated imprecise speech, was always badgering her to describe things exactly as they were.

“Quiet.Peaceful.”

Sometimes the house in Maida Vale was _too_ quiet, but this was different.Being around Mycroft felt like looking down at everything from above.They were removed, but they weren’t out of the story. 

“The geese here are not as courtly as the ravens in the Tower, I’m afraid, but they do have a rude vigor I find bracing.”

“You have strange friends.”

That chuckle again.“Not really.”

But the chuckle had turned into a wince.She watched him press his lips together and brace against the umbrella, pushing the tip hard into the ground.She hadn’t intended to bring up the subject, but it came out:“Does it hurt?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, half-breathless.“Rather a lot.”

“Didn’t they give you any kind of drugs for it?”

“Whenever I start taking painkillers, Rosamund, that will be when I must stop working.And I’m not ready yet.”

She couldn’t quite imagine it, a vast, shadowy, and empty house in Kew, and Mycroft lying somewhere in the dark.She swallowed, and her phone alarm beeped at her.“I have to go.Extra lacrosse practice.My alibi.”

“Sounds delightfully violent,” he said, with a thin smile.“Don’t let me keep you.”

“Goodbye,” she said, offering her hand. 

He looked at her hand, then up at her, as if making one last judgment, and they shook solemnly. “Goodbye, Rosamund.”

Walking away, she felt shaky on her legs.As if an explosion had happened, and her ears were still ringing—but no one else could hear it.She was glad to be going to practice, she thought.She wanted to hit something, a lot.

When she reached the edge of the park, she turned and looked back at Mycroft.He was still sitting on the bench, one arm now stretched along the top.Looking at the water.Not looking at her.

Not looking at the familiar dark-haired figure now walking slowly along the path with his hands buried deep in his pockets, either.

She breathed in.Sneaky.So sneaky.Then she had to look away, and saw something else.

Dad was leaning against the car.His arms were folded, and his mouth was set, but he wasn’t angry, even though she’d lied to him, even though she’d snuck off on purpose to see the most dangerous man in the world in order to solve a mystery.He was looking at her with the kind of narrow-eyed wonder that before she’d only seen him direct at Sherlock.

“Come on, Rosamund,” he said gently.“Let’s go home.”


End file.
